Christmas On The Doorstep
by TARDIS Blue Carbuncle
Summary: John is about to celebrate his first Christmas with Sherlock, and two surprises emerge: One in the flat, and one on the doorstep. Rated for minor, minor possible cursing. No slash intended.


**Author's note: Hello, sorry I haven't been on in a while. School and finals are doing their worst. Well, over Christmas I will post the next chapter of "The Angels that Wept", but I wanted to write something for the season, and due to a funny incident, this story was born. Thanks to Blue TARDIS Everdeen, who looked over this, and to Gollum Slayer 576. Sorry I couldn't get this posted sooner!**

** For the rest of the readers, enjoy!**

** Sincerely,**

** TARDIS Blue Carbuncle**

John Watson and Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway of 221 B, frozen with shock.

John's eyes widened. Though his mouth hung open, useless, his mind tried to comprehend the scene in front of him. _What the bloody— what happened to our flat? _

The impossible was nothing new to John. He had been at the front lines of the war in Afghanistan; he witnessed so many men get shot to ribbons, he tried to heal so many mortal injuries, he had seen the final light of life die from men's eyes. The war, and his own subsequent injury, was impossible to him until he endured it himself. With Sherlock Holmes, he watched the impossible methods that his fellow lodger displayed in the name of the law, and had been a part of so many strange and terrible events. Yet, the impossible had a peculiar way of surprising him every time.

Feeling constricted, John cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his beige sweater. _The impossible things in my life before,_ he told himself, _pale in comparison to this._ John glanced to Mrs. Hudson, ran his hand through his short, blonde hair, and muttered, "This is not my flat. I refuse to believe that this is Sherlock's and my flat."

Mrs. Hudson slowly shook her head with awe, sending her short, blonde-turning-gray hair bouncing. "If I didn't know better," she quietly muttered as she wrung her wrinkled hands in her yellow skirt, "I would agree with you."

John forced himself to take a step, to breathe, to do anything short of fainting from the sight. After a few moments, his feet jolted to life, and John stumbled into the living room. He spun in a circle, glancing at what should have been the living room. Even with the evidence firmly before him, John refused to believe the impossible.

The flat was _clean!_

Gone were the papers that littered the floor; in fact, the carpeted living room was completely clear of debris. Gone were the dangerous chemicals that lay on the kitchen table; John was even brave enough to remove the head from the fridge and the eyeballs from inside the oven. The mantle was tidy, the bookshelves were in order, and the papers that formerly lay on the floor now lay upon the living room desk, stacked in alphabetical order. The couch and two padded chairs sat in a square arrangement with the table. John realized that his flat, for the first time since he moved in, looked like a normal flat.

Suddenly weary, John collapsed onto the couch. Mrs. Hudson entered the room and sat next to him, equally tired. "How did we do it?" John asked, "This has to be a dream. I'm going to wake up now, and realize that Sherlock's burned the building down."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I must admit, our handiwork is quite nice. But next time, young man, let me know if you plan to need me for another cleaning."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Do you mind if you make some tea? Between cleaning the flat and—"

"I'm not your housekeeper, young man."

"Sorry."

"I know one thing, dearie," Mrs. Hudson retorted with a grandmother's smile, "I will not be around when Sherlock comes home and finds out that we hung Christmas lights on the mantle."

John's tired-looking face turned to the mantle, and he finally registered the presence of Christmas lights. Then he remembered; in the rush to clean the flat, John had forgotten that he and Mrs. Hudson had also decorated the flat for Christmas. A string of red lights hung on the mantle where a jackknife and letters lay before; Mrs. Hudson lined the windows with white lights, and she put tinsel on the banister of the staircase. John discovered that he placed the decorated Christmas tree in a place that conveniently covered the bullet holes in the wall. He looked around one more time, at the tidiness, the Christmas decorations, and the general coziness of the flat. He sighed with content, and silently said, _this is it: my first Christmas in Baker Street._

That contentment changed to gut-wrenching terror. John heard someone pound up the stairs and fling the door to the flat open. He and Mrs. Hudson jumped up from the couch as Sherlock Holmes stomped into the flat.

Sherlock, the master of observation and deduction, immediately noticed something wrong. _No,_ he corrected himself as he froze in the doorway and glanced around the living room, _a lot of things are wrong._ His grey eyes darted to a fro, noticing his notes stacked on the desk, out of the order he wanted, his chemicals gone, and his jackknife gone. Sherlock swiftly entered the kitchen, his black coat flying behind him. He yanked open the fridge and the oven, and scowled when he saw that his experiments (involving a head and eyeballs) were gone. He turned on his heel so he could view the entire flat. To his horror, he saw Christmas decorations everywhere, and a Christmas tree blocking the view of his lovely bullet-pocked smiley face on the patterned wall.

Sherlock's eye twitched. "Mrs. Hudson," he asked in a low, agitated tone as he clenched his black, curly hair in his fists, "did someone change the address plates? This is not 221 B."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous," Mrs. Hudson chided, "This is 221 B. John and I decided to tidy up the place while you were gone."

John stuttered, "Sherlock, don't be mad, it's just—"

"My clutter is gone! John, the papers were in the perfect configuration! You do not understand the importance of clutter to a superior mind like mine!" Sherlock shrugged off his coat, revealing a blue dress shirt, and lay onto the couch, folding his hands on his chest. "A good month's work is gone, and another month shot just to get everything back in order."

John stepped toward the couch and protested, "I'd say that it's in order now. Besides, I put your papers there in alphabetical order—"

"I wanted them in chronological order."

"That's what I did last time, and you complained that you wanted them in alphabetical order. If you want them organized, do it yourself!"

"Bah. Boring."

With a huff, John tugged at the edge his sweater and sat down in the chair across from Sherlock. Reining his frustration, John asked, "Do you at least like it?"

Sherlock lazily rolled his head toward John. "What?"

"The Christmas decorations," Mrs. Hudson interrupted with a sigh as she slipped into the kitchen. "John and I put up the Christmas decorations."

"Ah. Christmas. Christmas is boring."

John had enough. He half-shouted, "How could you think Christmas is boring, Sherlock? It's the one time of the year that people notice one another—"

"No good cases. Even criminals take the holiday off. Good for the public, bad for the specialist." Sherlock grinned in defiance. That grin disappeared when his gaze drifted to the mantle. He jerked up and hissed, "John, the skull on the mantle is gone. Where is it? Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson shouted from the kitchen, "Ask John. I'm not your housekeeper."

Mrs. Hudson reemerged from the kitchen, but quickly and wisely moved to the wooden door. She left the apartment, leaving the door open, and John could hear her walk down the stairs. Sherlock turned a rather withering glare to John, who met grey with green. He smiled, snapped, and pointed to the Christmas tree. Sherlock stood, turned on his heel, and stared.

Sherlock pointed to the top of the tree. "What's my skull doing in a tree?"

"Couldn't find the angel," John quipped, shrugging, "so I chose the devil instead. Reminds me of you sometimes." Sherlock opened his mouth for a retort, but stopped when he and John heard Mrs. Hudson scream.

Neither he nor John moved for a second. Sherlock was gauging whether that was a scream of surprise (Mrs. Hudson tends to do that), a scream of happiness (not worth my time), an I'm-going-to-kill-you-for-this-mess scream (why does that woman never yell at John?), or an I-just-found-the-serial-killer-and-not-in-a-good-way scream. John stared at him, Sherlock nodded, and both men took off at a sprint. John shoved Sherlock as they reached the stairs. Sherlock shoved back as they pounded down the stairs, knocking John off his feet. John grabbed Sherlock's arm, sending them both tumbling down the last five steps, and they landed in a pile of arms and legs at the foot of the stairs.

Sherlock untangled himself, stood, and shouted, "Mrs. Hudson!"

From the ground, John yelled, "Are you all right, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson emerged from the door that led to the outside with a bundle of blue cloth in her arms. John picked himself up and asked, "Sherlock and I heard you scream. Are you okay? What happened?"

"Quite fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, shuddering, "Just had a bit of a scare. There was almost a car accident, right in front of me. A small car was coming down the street, and it slipped on the ice. Nearly hit the poor thing."

"What poor thing?" John asked.

Sherlock did not concern himself with the story, but rather with the cloth that Mrs. Hudson held awfully close to her. Then, Sherlock's eye caught a bit of movement, and heard something. He asked himself, _why is the cloth whimpering?_ "Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock asked, "the poor thing to which you referred, are you carrying it in that cloth?"

Mrs. Hudson did not respond. Instead, she shifted the weight to her left arm, reached over, and pulled back the edge of the cloth. John's heart stopped, and he thought, _oh, God. She did __**not**__ just bring home a baby! _Yet, a second later, a sigh of relief escaped John. Out of the sea of cloth emerged a tiny puppy's head.

The bull-pup, for John recognized the breed, was slightly shorter than John's forearm. The body was completely white save for a black spot over its brown left eye, and John could make out the ribs on the small pup. _Not chronically starving, but definitely hasn't had a meal in a while, _he diagnosed. Mrs. Hudson put the wriggling, whimpering bundle on the ground, and the little pup waddled unsteadily on its tiny feet toward John. Two steps later, the pup tripped over its foot, and landed on its back. Momentarily stunned, the pup wiggled on its back for a few moments before finding out which way was up, and rolling to its feet.

Stifling a laugh, John knelt and held his hand out to the pup. The pup waddled over, pressed its shiny, black nose into John's hand, and took a few, apprehensive sniffs. Then, the pup gave a small bark and its bright pink tongue licked John's hand. John grinned sheepishly up at Sherlock and said, laughing, "I think it likes me!"

"No," Sherlock sardonically replied, "If it bit your head off, then we know that it likes you. Besides, you still smell like Doritos."

"Oh, don't be stupid, Sherlock!"

"I am never stupid. I am merely a snob." Sherlock knelt next to John, who was running his hand through the short fur of the pup. His eyes ran over the pup, checking the condition of the teeth, searching for signs of injury or previous ownership. "No sign that a collar had ever been worn," Sherlock muttered to himself, and had what John thought to be an unhealthy, scheming gleam in his eye, "neither do I see signs of an identification chip. Teeth are in relatively good condition, and I see no major injuries." Sherlock stood, brushed himself off, and said, "I do not believe that it belongs to anyone. If you wish, Mrs. Hudson, I can take care of it."

"Sherlock, I do not mind that we take it in, but I am merely concerned—"

"Mrs. Hudson, the condition of my flat has nothing whatsoever with the care of a dog. Besides, consider it as your Christmas present to me… the dog has its uses."

"Such as what?" John asked as he stood, cradling the happily panting pup in his arms. "Oh, you're such a good dog…" he murmured in the pup's ear.

"There is one experiment of mine that needs a live subject," Sherlock muttered, shrugging.

John's eyes widened, and Mrs. Hudson gasped. John instinctively held the pup closer to his chest and away from Sherlock. "Sherlock," John said, "you're going to do what?"

Sherlock, though, was already halfway up the stairs, and muttered, "Now, where did I put that hypodermic syringe?"

"You are NOT putting this poor pup through any of your experiments!" John shouted as he ran after him. "He's already been through enough in such a short life!"

"John, he has barely been through anything! Besides, he would solve so many crimes and save so many people by giving his life." Sherlock entered the flat and walked straight to the couch, where he flopped onto his back.

"I don't care if he would serve 'the common good'," John replied, "If I find his head in the fridge, and his body dissected on the kitchen table, I will personally pound your head in with your own violin!" _That way, _he thought to himself, _I wouldn't have to listen to your dying cow noises at three in the morning._

Sherlock merely grinned widely at John. "If you did attempt something of the sort," he muttered, "the violin would break before my skull, and I would pound you to a pulp. At least I can plead self-defense."

"I think I should call you Toby…"

"What?"

"The pup, you idiot! I think I shall call the pup Toby." John sat down at the kitchen table as he continued to coo at the pup, petting it obsessively.

Sherlock groaned, "John, dear John, that's a bad idea."

"What do you mean? Should I name him after your brother, then?"

"No… although that's not such a bad idea," Sherlock admitted. "But once you name it, then you will become attached to it. After that, it gets quite hard to cut up a dissection subject. Now stop with that nonsense about keeping that thing as a pet! We can't afford to take care of it!"

"And why not?"

"The dog would get in my way! All dogs are good for are for piddling on the carpet! Now if I can't use that dog, then get rid of it before I do!"

John bit his lip, reigning in his emotions. He raised his head in defiance and said, "Sherlock, this is our new puppy, Toby. I shall take care of it myself, and if you even try to do anything that is detrimental to its health, which includes feeding it anything that isn't dog food, trying to cut it open, bashing it on the head, etcetera…" John faltered, trying to find a good threat. Then he shouted, "You know what? You are not allowed within a ten foot radius of this dog!" He stomped off to his room, taking Toby with him.

Sherlock's mouth hung open, and he shouted after him, "What would happen if I got nine feet, eleven point nine inches away from the dog?"

For an hour, that was how he remained; Sherlock lay on the couch, ruminating over several subjects, including the dog, and trying not to look at the Christmas tree. Once his thoughts turned to John… _I did upset the poor fellow, didn't I, _he thought to himself. For a reason that he could not deduce, he felt terrible when he saw John upset. In fact, just thinking about the tortured look on John's face as he stomped off made him sick to his stomach. Then, he did something that he had never done before: he changed his mind. _I wish I knew how to apologize to John._

Then, his ears picked up the turning of the knob on John's door. He sat up, just as John walked in, holding the end of a string in his hand. The other end he had tied around Toby's neck. John walked over, and said, "Sherlock… I'm… I'm sorry for having that row with you. It's just that I was… concerned for the pup's safety… and—"

"You fell in love with the dog, didn't you?"

John gaped. "Well… er… er… in a way…" He shrugged, speechless.

Sherlock sighed. "It seems to me that Sarah has competition. Yet, you have no reason to apologize. I was the one who threatened to take Toby's life, someone who is rather close to you. In hurting the poor dog, I would hurt you, and… suffice to say, I am rather loathe to do so." Sherlock ran his hand under Toby's chin, scratching it affectionately. "Besides," he whispered, smiling, "he is rather adorable."

John smiled back. "Sherlock, I'll take care of him for you. I'll feed him, and pay for everything. That way, he won't get in your way, and you don't need to change your habits. Just please let me keep him. Please?"

Toby turned his head toward John, and whimpered. Sherlock glanced from John, to Toby, and to the Christmas tree. Sherlock turned back to John, and stared him in the eye. Finally, he said, "This is the season of giving and forgiveness, is it not? Consider it my Christmas gift to you, John."

Toby barked, waddled to Sherlock, and jumped into his lap. Before Sherlock could say anything, Toby licked his face vigorously. John froze, expecting Sherlock to yell. Instead, Sherlock giggled like a little boy, and said, "John? I think you have a rival in Toby's affections!"

John picked up Toby, virtually saving Sherlock from being licked to death, and yelled above the din, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock!"

"Merry Christmas, John!" Sherlock replied, and Toby barked in agreement. The three boys of Baker Street gathered around the Christmas tree, and spent the rest of the evening celebrating their friendship. As John glanced around him, at the bouncy Toby that is now his, the rare smile that graced Sherlock Holmes' lips, the lights, the tree, and the snow that started to fall outside, he knew that his first Christmas in Baker Street would be great after all.


End file.
